Hunters and Prey
by PaBurke
Summary: How much of a façade can you see through? Criminal Minds/Supernatural crossover
1. Chapter 1

Façades

By PaBurke

Distribution: The Nook

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money made, no characters created.

Spoilers: Season two of Criminal Minds, Season 1 of Supernatural

Summary: How much of a façade can you see through?

*

It is error alone which needs the support of government. Truth can stand by itself. ~Thomas Jefferson, _Notes on Virginia_

*

"I don't know what I can tell you that I didn't already tell the other FBI agents," the most recent victim's wife told Gideon and Morgan.

Morgan had opened his mouth to give the standard line about profilers asking different questions than normal officers, but paused when he realized that she had said 'other FBI agents.' No other agents had come to interview her, Morgan was sure that the local law enforcement had, but the BAU was the only FBI agents in town.

Gideon had heard the unintended falsehood as well. "Just tell us what you told the other agents. I'm sure that we'll have additional questions. We concentrate more on emotions, than hard facts."

Mrs. Durgon shrugged. "They asked me the same things that the cops asked before. Why do we have to go through this three times?"

"Ma'am," Morgan smiled comfortly, "each time, you might remember something different."

"I haven't and the others understood that and were really gracious about it. They had great manners," she smiled. "They thanked me for the coffee."

"Did they follow you to make the coffee?" Morgan asked.

Durgon shook her head. "Why would they?"

"So you left them alone in this room?"

"No. Steve talked to them then, mostly small talk."

All three of the adults turned to look at the pre-teen witness of his father's disappearance.

"Steve," Morgan said. "What did they ask you?"

Steve shifted uncomfortably and then decided that he had no reason to. "They asked me the some of the same questions as the cops, but they didn't treat me like a kid."

"They didn't?" questioned Gideon. "How?"

"When I said that I didn't see who took my dad, they didn't keep asking like the cops." Steve frowned. "The cops didn't believe me and kept asking the same questions. These two didn't. Instead they asked about shadows and smells and sounds and they believed me when I said that it didn't sound like anything I had ever heard before." A smile peaked through the solemn boy's lips. "The short one, he made me examples of sounds for me to pick from. And every time I picked one, he made three more that were similar but different. He never acted like he was embarrassed for making noises for me or that I was stupid for not knowing the sound on my own. He told me that I did the right thing running into the house with my baby sister and waking up my mom."

"You really did do the right thing," Gideon reinforced the complement to the child.

"They really weren't FBI agents," Mrs. Durgon realized.

"No ma'am," answered Morgan. "Did you by chance wash the mugs that they used?"

"Uhm, no. I have them."

"They really are FBI agents," Steve argued.

Gideon sat next to the boy and tried to explain the truth. "It takes more than an ID to be an agent."

"They have the guns too," said the boy. "And they cleared a house just like they do on TV and they don't even need a couple takes to do it right."

Gideon and Morgan were slightly skeptical, but Mrs. Durgon spoke. "He watches all of the outtakes from the cop movies and TV shows. He wants to be a director someday."

"I'm thinking about being an FBI agent now," Steve said. "It's so much cooler in real life."

"Steve, how do you know that?" Morgan asked.

Steve looked a little sheepish. "I told them that I thought some of the other kids had heard the same sound at the old Miller house. Cody and Michael went there on a dare and _swear_ that they're not going back, ever. I figured that that was where the agents would go next, so I took a shortcut through the woods to see them in action." Steve ducked his head again.

"It's okay, Steve," Gideon reassured the boy. "Just tell us what you saw."

"Like I said, they're really real FBI agents. They cleared the house working together and they held the guns and the flashlights just like on TV. Agent Ford saw me when I peeked in the window just as they started," Steve's gaze skittered to the side for a moment. "He was really mad. He told me that it was dangerous because they were using real guns and I could have gotten shot on accident because they didn't know that I was there. He took me and put me in his car and told me not to touch anything. He gave me a little black bag and said that if the car door opened and I couldn't see anyone that I was to close my eyes and throw the bag at the door. He and the other one went into the house and… nothing happened." The boy look a bit disappointed. "Then they walked me home. Agent Ford told me that I had to look after my little sister and that I couldn't follow FBI agents because I might get hurt and then who would look after my sister?"

Gideon and Morgan were slightly confused. They looked at each other and then Gideon questioned the boy about the sounds that the fake FI agents had asked. Morgan followed the mother into the kitchen and acquired and processed the mugs that the two men had drunk from. He also took the mother's fingerprints so that they could eliminate hers from the mugs. He would get these processed ASAP.

They left the house thinking more about the fake FBI agents than the UNSUB they were chasing.

*

"Hey guys, Garcia the Great has found your answers yet again." Hotch opened his mouth to thank her but the computer geek rushed ahead. "Next time you're sending me to hunt down someone, could it not be a sadist killer? These pictures…"

"Baby girl, what are you talking about?" Morgan asked. "Did you find our UNSUB?"

"No, I found your fake Fed's and let me tell you that they are really good at faking it. The shorter one, he's Dean Winchester. He was killed in St. Louis. Someone caught him escaping from a house where he was trying to torture and murder his third victim. They shot him and left his body for the PD to find. The taller one is his brother and accomplice, Samuel."

"They're wrong," Gideon finally pronounce after a long silence.

"Aside from the fact that someone is in a grave with Winchester's name, well, yeah."

"It doesn't match the profile," Morgan told Garcia. "No sadist is going to be able to connect with a frightened child in seconds and get information out of them. And he wouldn't protect the same child and walk him home."

"I'm telling you that the prints match."

"I believe you," Gideon said.

"And I'm sending you the Dean's mug shot and the candid picture they have of Sam so that you can check with the witnesses again."

"Just send us the entire file. Thank you, baby girl."

Garcia hung up on them.

The team looked at each other, trying to get a grasp on the situation.

"Why would anyone pretend to be an FBI agent?" Reid asked.

"To pick up girls," JJ supplied with a slight smile Emily's way.

Hotch sensed a good story, but offered another explanation. "They could have been checking to see what the eye witness had seen, injecting themselves into the investigation."

"No," Gideon said. "They were asking all sorts of questions that they had to know would eventually get passed along to us. And they followed the leads that the boy told them. They Iare/I investigating the same case as we."

Morgan looked out the window to the darkening sky. "We checked the Miller house and we couldn't find anything. The Winchesters obviously checked every nook and cranny. If they found something and managed to hide it from Steve Durgon, we couldn't find evidence of it. We couldn't find any evidence of Mr. Durgon having ever been there."

Hotch looked at the team liaison. "JJ…"

"I'll find out from the St. Louis PD as much as possible and have someone dig up Winchester's grave."

The Chief of Police rushed into the temporary FBI office. "You visited the Miller house, didn't you?"

"Just this afternoon," Morgan supplied.

"It's on fire now."

The team followed the small town chief to the fire, with light flashing and sirens blaring. They were directed to park to the side so that the mutual aid fire trucks coming from other counties could get through, and so the tankers could come and go to supply water. The local volunteers were battling the blaze. They weren't having much affect on the actual fire, but they were keeping it from spreading to the woods.

The fire chief waved to the police chief. "Hank, Got your vic in the ambulance!"

The police chief ran that way and was followed by the entire BAU team. Mr. Durgon was in the ambulance. He was alive.

But the changes that had been inflicted on him in the last forty-eight hours were stark: he had lost thirty pounds and his healthy tan. He was white as a sheet (comparable to Reid's normal complexion.)

Gideon was the first to question the victim. "Mr. Durgon? Do you remember anything?"

Durgon shook his head no. "It was dark and I was screaming and it hurt."

"How did it hurt?" asked Hotchner.

"Like someone was squeezing me, from the inside."

"Was it cold or damp?" Prentiss suggested.

"No, no. It was hot." Durgon shivered… so very, very hot.

So the man couldn't have been in a root cellar. Where had he been? "How did you get out?" Gideon asked.

"Two… men, maybe. They said that Stevie sent them for me… I think. It was just a blur. I saw light and felt hands pulling me toward it."

"Do you remember any pinpricks on your skin?" Reid was obviously trying to narrow down the drugs used.

Durgon shook his head no. They'd have to do a complete tox screen on him ASAP.

Gideon took a page from the Winchesters. "What about sounds?"

Durgon winced. "The same, over and over…" He shivered but flatly refused a blanket from the paramedic. He'd rather be cold.

"Describe it for me," Gideon ordered.

Durgon shook his head. "Please, no. I need to get it out of my head. Not add to it."

"We need to find who did this to you," Hotchner said softly. "So that this won't happen again."

Durgon accepted that reason. No one deserved what he had endured. "It was a _Chur-chunk…Screetkch_."

The BAU team looked at each other wondering what could possibly make that sound. It was then that most of them realized that Morgan was gone. They knew that he would be covering the most likely escape routes. Why had this victim escaped? None of the others had.

Morgan was having his own set of problems. When he had followed the trail that young Steve Durgon had spoken of, he ran into Dean Winchester. The young man had a gasoline can in one had and a sawed-off shotgun in the other.

Morgan pointed his gun at him and had ordered him to "Freeze!"

Dean had pouted and lifted his hands. "Oh man, why couldn't one of the hot FBI agents have followed me?"

"All of them are good at seeing through the phony FBI schitch."

"All those other posers make it hard to catch a girl."

Morgan was not about to be distracted. "Where is your brother?"

A strong forearm snaked around Morgan's neck. "Here, sir," a voice taunted.

Dean moved incredibly fast and disarmed him while he was distracted with trying to breathe. The man choking Morgan, presumably Sam Winchester, administered the text-book counter-move to every escape he attempted. Working together, the two young men patted Morgan down and absconded with any possible weapons and then handcuffed him to a tree with his own cuffs. The tree had so wide a circumference that Morgan didn't have a chance to reach for his belt buckle or anything else that might be useful. They also tore the sleeve off of Morgan's shirt and used it as a gag.

Only minutes after Morgan had stumbled across the Winchester brothers, he was put out of service and watching them run down the path.

Damnit.

He was never going to hear the end of this little adventure from the rest of the BAU team.

One thing was for sure, they didn't act like serial killers.

They were mission-oriented, obsessive, dangerous people, but they hadn't even considered hurting Morgan and they had left his gun (magazine separated from the rest in case he managed to escape the cuffs).

The BAU would be sure to be chasing those brothers next.

Morgan comforted himself with the idea of cuffing _them_, next time.

*

Truth is a great flirt. ~Franz Liszt

*


	2. Chapter 2

Myths and Other Impossible Things

By PaBurke

Summary: A very unexpected sequel to Hunters and Prey. Years into the future, Spencer is looking for answers about a paper and a professor. He finds so much more.

Spoilers: Ignoring most of Season 4 of Supernatural, it's still long into the future. Writing different chapters of the same story concurrently can help and sometimes it can hurt the process. I'd like to think that it assisted me this time. Post- Season three of Criminals Minds, no spoilers for anything more.

Rating: PG-13

A/N: It wasn't until word 2,068 and a whole other chapter elsewhere that I figured out how I was going to end this. Until then, I had feared that this would be yet another abandoned work on my USB drive never to see the light of day.

With a grin, the local resident had told FBI Agent Spencer Reid that he couldn't miss the drive and now pausing at the entrance to Singer's Salvage…

There were giant, steel Igargoyles/I on either side of the drive. They looked incredibly lifelike for being something out of an artist's imagination. The teens in the area probably used this property to scare themselves. After one last look admiring the art, and Spencer pulled into the long driveway. Further in was a steel wolf that was too big and too nasty to be a regular wolf. Then there was the tall thin humanoid creature, something about it screamed 'predator.' Spencer had seen and survived some of the worst humans could dish out to each other and still the sculpture chilled him to the bone. Nearer to the house was a pair of almost see-through, muscular, black dogs. The artist must have beaten the steel so thin to achieve that effect.

This place must be popular at Halloween.

Finally, he arrived at the farmhouse that had been made wheelchair accessible long ago and the huge garage. He knew from the IRS records that Garcia had pulled that there were four ways the owners were pulling in money. The first way was from the line of shiny classic cars under the barn roof in various states of repair. Rumor was that the mechanic could fix any of them and could get a hold of parts from companies long defunct. He also –for a very hefty fee- could change the engine of an old gas-guzzler to something more fuel-efficient. Again a rumor that Garcia had dug up indicated that though the mechanic could change it, he didn't like to. Said that it felt like he was 'betraying the old gals.'

The mechanic used the junkyard in the back both to sell salvageable parts and as raw materials for his sculptures. The final income came from the second occupant listed at the rural address. Samuel Karr was a professor of mythology and the occult at the local university, responsibly dabbling in psychology and sociology. He was remarkably well informed and had published. Spencer had referenced his work several times.

The agent parked the car in front of the garage and wished for Morgan or Hotch or (truly wishful thinking) Gideon. Though he wasn't here for a suspect, there was just something of the sculptures that had him wishing for backup. The parade of monsters meant something, but Spencer didn't have enough information to guess as to what. He didn't think it was to scare away potential customers. He yearned for another profiler to bounce ideas off of. All of his old friends (family, really) had moved on from the FBI BAU long ago. Penelope Garcia was still in her office and Spencer didn't know if he would have survived to this point without her and her stubborn and interfering comments that prompted him to get onto the experimental medicine that mitigated the affects of schizophrenia. He was still sane and had a job thanks to her. The higher ups wanted Spencer to teach at Quantico, but he was putting them off. He liked co-leading a BAU team.

The mechanic stepped out of the garage, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. He was younger than Spencer by about ten or fifteen years. He eyed the agent with sharp brown eyes.

Spencer stepped out of the car and called out to the man. "Ben Braedon?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Dr. Spencer Reid. I would like to talk to Dr. Karr about his last paper."

"Could 'ave called," Braedon grumbled.

"You don't answer the phone or return messages," Spencer reminded, using Gideon's calm tones.

Braedon grinned a bit and stepped forward to stand in front of Spencer. "You're not a customer and Sam doesn't need to talk to his Ipeers/I." Braedon shifted. "You look like a Fed to me."

Spencer blinked. It was rare for him to be tagged as a federal agent, even though he had been one for five-ninths of his life. "I am that too."

Braedon grunted and, with his body language, ushered the agent back a step or two. "Sam's not here."

In the garage, Spencer could hear the hiss of acetylene torch. With a move he had learned from Morgan, Spencer sidestepped Braedon and hurried into the garage before Braedon could stop him. He slid to a stop before a welder working on yet another… creepy creature. He really needed to take pictures of all of the sculptures to show Garcia. She'd love them.

Braedon grabbed Spencer's arm and pulled, not gently. "You are not welcome on our property."

"I just want to talk to Mr. Karr."

The welder turned off the torch, stood, pushed back his face shield and revealed a scarred face and piercing green eyes. "Ben?" He was reaching for a cane. The man looked somewhat familiar and concerned.

"It's nothing, D… Dad. The Fed wanted to bother Sam, but he's leaving now."

Spencer's mind was spinning. Trying to tell him something that he should know. The obvious: only two people were listed as residents at the address and three lived here.

"Do we have visitor?" A new voice asked.

Spencer was being yanked in that direction anyways, so he tore his eyes away from Ben's father. (He believed that it was true, but Garcia had found 'Father Unknown' on Braedon's birth certificate.) Sam Karr stood in the garage door, age had paid its toll on his body as well, but he was still well above six feet tall. This white-haired man pinged a memory too. He had seen this man's picture before, a long time ago. The picture had been matched with the other older man.

The clues were all there.

Sam and D. D and Sam. Though the sculptures were all sold under Ben's name, a stylized version of DW was always signed on the art. The two letters were in the shape of a long gun. Karr was a name of gun manufacturer, so was Smith & Wesson, Colt, and… and IWinchester/I.

"Dean and Sam Winchester?" Spencer blurted out. This was… crazy. The BAU had chased the brothers for three months and through fourteen states before being yanked off the case. Morgan, a hand-to-hand FBI instructor, had especially wanted to catch them since they had managed to subdue him without pointing a weapon at him and then restrained him with his own cuffs. Now Spencer had stumbled across them years later. In all of their profiles of Dean Winchester, the term artist had never, ever been mentioned. Nor had they expected the brothers to settle and put down roots and have steady employment, though the self-employment wasn't a surprise. Dean's injury must have been severe enough to end their nomadic life. How had they ever collected the money to buy this land? Why hadn't they changed the name of the garage? Singer had been the previous owner.

His mind sped through what he could remember about the Winchester case which had first been linked to yet another case full of unanswered questions.

He wanted to laugh but he was being stared at three very serious pairs of eyes. "I have so many questions. What was really in that house? Where had the victim been held? What drugs did the UNSUB use? What happened to the UNSUB?"

Now Dean was really looking confused. "Dude. What are you talking about?"

"Michael Durgon. Troy, Michigan. October 2003."

Dean glanced at Sam with an eyebrow raised.

Sam thought about it and then answered. "Fall, we cleared the house in the middle of a forest and the vic's son was watching through the window."

Dean remembered and grumbled about kids. Steve Durgon had shaken Dean's confidence a bit. More so than before, Spencer believed that Dean wasn't a serial killer. They had proved it before, which was why the BAU had been taken off the case. They had actual serial killers to track down, not people who impersonated federal agents and had assaulted one. The statute of limitations had expired on many of their crimes, but he would have to read their file again. Had anyone else added to it?

"And you are?" Sam prompted.

"Oh," Spencer stepped forward and held out his hand to Sam. He still had to dodge Ben who was standing menacingly nearby. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid."

"FBI agent," Ben added pointedly. He didn't like that he had been out-maneuvered by someone who was old, geeky and could threaten his family.

"Would you like some coffee?" Sam offered as they shook hands.

Spencer grinned. "Love some."

"It's time for Dean's break anyway." Sam led the way into the house. Spencer noticed the occult symbols on the floors and the walls and even the ceilings. There were reference books everywhere. Spencer itched to sit down and read, but Sam was in the kitchen and Ben was waiting there. The son was very protective of his father and uncle. Spencer knew that he would have to deal with the young man. Dean hobbled into the house and made his way to the kitchen.

Four glasses of water were already on the table. Spencer took a sip to be polite. A dark wing outside the kitchen window caught his attention. Spencer put down the glass and edged closer for the full view of the sculpture. He saw a winged man, firm, formidable, steady, facing the flat land with a sword ready. Spencer got the impression of protection, no matter the cost. Then the sun came out from behind a cloud, touched the artwork and Spencer was blinded by the reflection. He ducked his head and rubbed his eyes. Lens and mirrors had to be behind the impressive effect.

The Winchester men were waiting for him to recover at the kitchen table. Spencer joined them. He didn't know which question he wanted answered first. He tried the Gideon Gambit first. "Why is your best artwork in the backyard, Dean?"

Dean had a… wistful smile on his face. "That's for a friend." A gift waiting to be delivered? Why was it placed as an artist would position it if it wasn't staying long?

"Why did you choose this place to settle down out of your nomadic life? Why South Dakota?"

Sam answered. "Bobby –Robert Singer," he clarified, "was diagnosed with cancer about the time that Dean messed up his leg. Dean needed some place to recover and Bobby needed someone around so that he didn't have to live at the hospital."

"You had a previous history," Spencer filled in.

Sam nodded. "It was the least we could do for him. And Dean fought off several severe infections in his leg. Almost lost it at one point."

"Stubborn, old cuss took three years to die," Dean grumbled, changing the topic. Despite his words, Spencer knew that Dean still treasured that time.

"Then he left the place to me," said Sam.

Spencer looked at Dean, who harbored no hard feelings for the choice. "Why not both of you?"

Dean shrugged. "Sam would take care of his library."

But Dean would take care of the garage. It was simpler, leaving it to one person and Sam would always have room for Dean wherever he was. Up until the point where the boys stopped here, they had been on the road for all but fours years of their life. Sam had been stationary at Stanford as a young adult. Dean had lived behind a picket fence with his parents until his mother had been killed and his father had taken them off the grid. Sam had, at one point, as an adult, tried to put down roots. When his girlfriend had died in the same manner as his mother, it was only then that Sam had followed the footsteps of his father. Given another chance, Sam would probably have an easier time accepting the stability of a house more so than Dean.

"So you started creating art during your recovery?' Spencer asked the elder brother.

Dean nodded.

"What was your first piece?"

"Lilith."

Spencer searched his memory for conversations with Garcia. "I don't recall that one."

"And you have a photographic memory?" Sam prompted.

"Eidetic," Spencer corrected.

Dean snorted, "Bet that helps with FBI work."

"It does."

"So you could read Bobby's library and remember it all?" Ben asked. Interesting, that it was still referred to as 'Bobby's' and by the younger generation. The man had been dead for more than a decade. Why hadn't the Winchesters laid claim to the place they had lived in for so long? Did they expect that it would be taken from them? Did they respect the previous owner that much? Did they not believe that it belonged to them?

"Yes," Spencer said.

"What did you need from in there?" Sam asked. "Ben mentioned that you were here to see me about my research."

Spencer straightened. "Yes, you mentioned the psychological effects certain deity beliefs had on groups of Scandinavian people, where did you come up with the hard data? A journal? It sounded like first hand observations."

A squeak of a wheelchair was Spencer's only warning. "I was wondering if I had gone senile, hearing the voices of old friends."

Spencer turned, looked, and didn't believe his eyes. Then he nearly fell out of his chair rushing to his old friend's side. "Gideon? Gideon, is it really you?" The man was old, oh had he aged, but his bright, intelligent eyes had not dimmed. It really was Jason Gideon. Though time had caught the man firm in its grasp, the stresses of life seemed less. He was at peace, nothing like the frantic, desperate letter that Spencer could still remember without trying.

"Hi, Spencer. I hope you'll have time for a game of chess before you leave."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"And I hope you still trust me enough that when I tell you that you cannot tell Ianyone/I of what you learned here today, you will take me at my word."

Spencer nodded so fast, his head might fall off. The respect he had for this man had never dimmed much and with the responsibilities now in his lap, he could understand the pain that Gideon had carried so much better. "My lips are sealed," he promised. Then he backtracked. "Can I tell Garcia? Please? And Morgan?"

"Definitely not Morgan." Gideon was firm and Spencer didn't think he could defy this man or deny the order. "Garcia… she wouldn't be too surprised. I've called her for assistance several times through the years. If she didn't know my approximant location by now, she's lost considerable skills. As soon as you sent her pictures of Dean's sculptures, she would put it together immediately."

"Oh." And then Spencer could do nothing but stupidly grin at this man, this father figure that he had given up for lost decades ago. "It's good to see you."

"It's very good to see you too, Dr. Reid. So tell me, what PhD's have you added to your already impressive résumé?"

And so started a conversation that Spencer treasured. He didn't learn anything more about the Winchesters, any generation, since they politely excused themselves from the reunion. Sam worked on the computer in the library, searching though piles of books. Dean and Ben returned to the garage.

He was thrilled with the time and with Gideon. They had brought out a well-used chess set and competed. He left before dark and made plans to return. He reiterated his vow of silence.

Spencer never did get some satisfactory answers, but it was probably the most satisfying trip of his life.

*


	3. Chapter 3

Arts and Suits

By PaBurke

Summary: A very unexpected sequel to Hunters and Prey. Years into the future, Jason Gideon is looking for an escape from mainstream life on Superbowl Sunday night. He's a little too successful.

Spoilers: Season Three of Criminal Minds and though this happened in the story before 'Myths and Other Impossible Things,' it should really be read after. Ignoring most of Season 4 of Supernatural, it's still long into the future.

A/N: This went completely the wrong way. Missouri just bustled her way into this fic and sat down in the middle and was determined not to be moved. I've learned not to argue with people like Missouri; life is too short. She was a catalyst for changing the whole series without informing me, the author.

When Jason Gideon attended the gallery opening on Superbowl night, he was expecting to find the more traditional art lovers. He wasn't close enough to DC for his traditional Smithsonian visit, so he attempted the next best thing. He was expecting suits. He might be in Kansas City, Kansas, but still, there were certain customs one partook of at a gallery opening.

Some men were in suits, but they were cheap suits and hard men. It reminded him of Aaron Hotchner. It had been years since he thought of Hotch and even longer since he had talked to his former colleague, but the feeling was there. The tie could and would be tucked into a Kevlar vest should the need arise. Some hard men didn't bother with the suit disguise, they wore flannels and jeans and truckers' caps. They were missing from some sports bar or party couch. Except that they were here- some even taking notes. Why were monsters noteworthy? The hard men didn't talk to the other hard men, but they did exchange nods. Acknowledgements. It was more than just politeness but less than true recognition, and Jason didn't know why.

Then there were the Goths, but Jason wondered if they were as out of place as he was.

The title exhibits of the gallery were under the theme of Monsters. While a good number of the peripheral, heavy steel sculptures featured some fantasy, fairy tale monsters, the three pieces in the center had captured Jason's attention. It was an obvious arrangement ploy, but very, very effective.

He wasn't sure if he should be here for the sake of his mental health, but he couldn't look away. He had circled the centermost metal sculpture four times. It was not painted, but paint would have distracted from its breath-taking effect. Its title 'Why aren't I in there?' was deeply etched into the base. Atop of that were partial, human faces. The faces had been destroyed, but not enough to hide the black, cruel eyes in pretty or normal faces. Eyes that really did seem to follow the observer, like hunters. The pinnacle face –for all the other faces led up to it- was whole, minus the bullet hole in the middle of the little girl's forehead. That little girl had killed maliciously.

Jason was sure of it. He wondered how many of the other faces had housed a killer.

The lighting was arranged so that you couldn't miss the bullet hole. Had the artist been forced to kill the girl? Did that account for the title? That the artist had crossed a line and maybe become what he was trying to stop? Or was this pile of savaged, savage faces representing those that the artist wished he had killed but had failed? There was a lot of regret in the piece.

Jason tore his eyes away. He wasn't a profiler anymore; he didn't have to look into the face of evil. Or the faces of evil pictured here. When he focused his eyes, he was facing another sculpture. This one and the one on the other side of the face pyramid were both spray painted all white. Both were women, created by someone who appreciated the female form in its many variations.

Both were wolves in sheep's clothing. Out to trick and trap and entice and ultimately, to kill.

The title of the right sculpture was 'Woman in White.' The title of the left one was 'Too Many Damn Cheating Husbands that Drive Their Chicks to Desperate Acts.' Why had the artist chosen those titles? The second one especially seemed to try to excuse the predatory nature of the piece. What excuse was there for killing?

Jason walked away from the provocative pieces and to the fantasy part of the gallery. It was the same artist here and he should have been prepared, but it was the stethoscope that did it.

The sculpture had folded the steel into a large dragging, ragged, hooded cloak with thin, skeletal hands reach out. There was some humanoid face in the depths of the hood. There was a simple, regular, standard stethoscope probably bought from a medical supply shop and then hung around its neck.

No.

That's wrong.

Jason stepped back again, and again.

He bumped into a heavy-set woman. He turned and tried to apologize.

"Honey, sit down," she said. "You're white as a sheet." She led Jason over to a bench, facing away from that particular artist's work. "There's nothing for you to get all worked up about. It's taken care of. There's nothing for you to fix. Breathe. Just breathe."

"I'm sorry," Jason said. He had his eyes closed and his hands covering his face. "I haven't had a breakdown it a while."

"I hear they're no longer called breakdowns. They're major depressive episodes."

Her words echoed a conversation of long ago, from when he was returning to the BAU. Jason opened his eyes to view this woman. She smiled at him. She was an African American who gloried in her bright colors. She was another one that Jason wouldn't expect to find in a gallery on Superbowl Sunday, but hosting a fun party for a bunch of friends. "You know better than to put people into your nice, little boxes," she chided him.

A profiler? Here? At her age and with that kind of skill, Jason should have heard of her. He held out a hand that wasn't shaking too much. "I'm Jason Gideon."

She had a strong grip. "Missouri Mosley." He hadn't heard of her. She smiled. "I tend to stay close to home."

Had he lost his poker face so much? What about the rest of his skills? "You personally know the artist, don't you?"

Missouri smiled. "I do. I was the one who introduced the gallery owner to this selection and told him that today would be a good day for an opening."

"How long have you known him?"

She knew he was talking about the artist and not the gallery owner. Missouri looked around the open spaces and shook her head. "I met him when he was a little boy and no one was more surprised than I was that he could create. We all knew that he had attention to detail and was good with his hands, but we all thought that it was under a hood of a car."

"The steel came from a salvage yard," Jason surmised. "Some place he felt safe."

She nodded. "That it did. While he was laid up with an injury. That's his excuse for not being here. Selling those two Women in White will pay for his medical bills."

Jason jerked. "Someone wants to bring that into their house?" He wasn't denying that it was good work, but he'd never be able to sleep around it.

"I agree," said Missouri. "But some people like the danger and the dark possibilities." She looked Jason over and appeared satisfied with what she saw. She grabbed his arm and lifted. "Let's get you out of here. You don't belong in a place like this."

Jason let himself be manhandled up and then out the door. He didn't look back at the artwork displayed, but before Missouri escorted him into the night he asked, "The one with the stethoscope? What's the title?" He had to know.

"It was a Striga," she said. "Think hard before taking this left turn on your journey to find yourself, Jason Gideon. You can never return."

Missouri left him standing there. Did he want to walk away, like he had from the BAU? He wouldn't be abandoning anyone if he left now. Or did he want to return to the gallery and ask questions that would change his life? Did he want to pry open repressed memories of his dying younger sister and a doctor that had come to visit ten year old Jason Gideon in the middle of the night but had been chased away by an armed stranger?

It was not something to be considered until he had a full night's sleep. The clues would be there tomorrow if he wanted (needed) to pick them up.

Jason Gideon walked away.

(This time.)

*


	4. Chapter 4

Notes and Memories

By PaBurke

Summary: A side story to the Hunters and Prey storyline. Sam Centric (I know, I know, coming from me?)

Spoilers: Season Three of Criminal Minds, only a minor part of the story. Ignoring most of Season 4 of Supernatural, it's still long into the future.

A/N: I've been thinking about Jess a lot lately and trying to get into Sam's head. I don't find him a sympathetic character on a normal basis.

The first several times that Sam had played the instrument, it was to flirt with Jess. Sitting so near to each other, heads tilted to the other and whispering back and forth, Sam had a lot of good memories of sitting on a piano bench in an empty music hall. Jess had had four years of piano lessons; her mom had insisted. That was before Jess had found basketball. She hadn't applied herself to studying music, but she had picked up the basics and knew how to read music. She had taught Sam both. She had envied him his large hands; octaves and rolling chords were nothing to him. He had the discipline that she lacked and Dean had always said that he had more emotions than a girl. In two years, he had surpassed Jess's knowledge and abilities.

Jess hadn't minded. She wasn't that kind of girl, part of the reason that he had loved her. She had merely brought back her keyboard from home on the next break. Sam later learned that Jess's mom's opinion of him had skyrocketed with that gesture. Sam had used the piano as he had once used sharpening a knife, or cleaning a gun. It settled his mind. The melody, the motions, the beauty had helped him focus at whatever task at hand. He had used it as a catharsis for dealing with his family until Jess had asked if Dean had texted him after three days of Bach.

Sam didn't like being that easy to read. He didn't like his emotions concerning his family spilling out all over the piano keyboard and into Jess's world. He had quit playing for two weeks before Jess had dragged him over to the keyboard and the two kitchen chairs she had set side-by-side.

Jess had grinned at him. "Play with me. It's been a while."

They had played and laughed for hours, hands overlapping into each other's territory. It had been fun. He had planned on proposing in front of a baby grand in an empty concert hall. He had even picked out the music he would use. After she said yes, he figured that they would play chopsticks together.

Jess was dead a week after they played together and four weeks before he could propose.

He hadn't touched a piano since.

After Dean had gotten hurt and Bobby had been diagnosed, Sam had fallen into the position of unwanted caretaker. Both Dean and Bobby pushed him away, leaning on each other instead. Sam had tried to be insistent and had been outmaneuvered. Between the two, Sam had suddenly found himself a TA at the local university, fast-tracked for his PhD. Then Dean (and everyone else) had discovered his artistic talent. Everyone but Dean knew how good the work was. Sam had called up Missouri, asking if she could help get Dean's stuff into a gallery. The following weeks had been a whirlwind of activity.

Sam had found it awfully convenient that both Bobby and Dean had a medical relapse the day before the showing opening. Ben flatly refused to show up at the gallery. He understood why they needed to use his name to sell the works, but he would not stand around and verbally take credit for the art. And he really didn't want to answer the 'and how were you feeling as your create this?' questions.

So Sam had attended alone, basking in his brother's glory. He had been wearing a wire, so that Dean would get to hear all the compliments and conversations that Sam had eavesdropped on. He couldn't wait to tell Dean that some hunters were taking pictures of the monsters for their own notebooks so that they could recognize them when hunting. Others snidely remarked on Dean's trophy gallery and Sam cheerfully recorded those remarks as well.

The two Women in White statues had sold even before the opening. The gallery owner had known of people who would be interested in that kind of art and had, in true entrepreneurial fashion, created a three-way bidding war. The winner of which was Dean –and the gallery owner. In the end, both of the statues had a new owner and the third bidder had 'settled' for the pile of demon-possessed faces. When Sam had asked why his face hadn't been added to the pile, he hadn't expected his comment to become the piece's title.

When Sam had gushed over the phone the amount of money that was now in the 'art' account, Dean had merely grunted.

When Sam had returned home with the glowing notes and the recording of all the compliments Dean's had received, no one was home.

But the living room of Bobby's house had been completely rearranged to make room for a baby grand piano in the corner.

Sam blinked.

There were a stack of piano books right next to it and atop sheet music from classical composers like Bach and Beethoven was a collection of classic rock songs.

*


	5. Chapter 5

Heirs and Heirlooms

By PaBurke

Summary: A side story to the Hunters and Prey storyline. Ben Centric

Spoilers: Season Three of Criminal Minds, only a minor part of the story. Ignoring most of Season 4 of Supernatural, it's still long into the future.

A/N: The beta has been trying to get more out of this universe, her primary attempt had centered on Ben. We know Dean's artistic talent and Sam's, so what was Ben's? Nothing seemed to fit…

Ben moved the sketchbook from the kitchen table and hid his smirk. Sam wasn't nearly as subtle as he thought he was. Ever since the man had been blindsided by his brother's talent, he had been trying to suss out Ben's. The various types of paints had been shelved, far from Dean's spray paints. The paintbrushes were in a drawer with the pencils and pens and even the artist's charcoal. The canvases had disappeared into the vast depths of the library, probably never to be seen again. The odd molding clay was still in its packaging, but Bobby had been eyeing it and Ben would bet a pretty penny that it would end up some sort of protective hanging. The expensive play-dough would be good for his eye-hand coordination and fine motor skills.

Ben looked around to make sure that Sam wasn't hiding out in the pantry and then checked out the quality of paper. It was nice and heavy, better than the thick, but small spiral sketchpad he had been using. He didn't need paper like this for his stuff. So Ben put it aside and started fixing dinner. Soup was on the menu tonight. Bobby's medicine wasn't helping his appetite and hopefully he'd be able to keep down some. The liquid and some of the nutrients would absorb into his system faster than solid food and he wouldn't complain about eating 'old man mush.' Dean's doctor had also mentioned that his customary diet wasn't helping his healing process. Soup would get the older man to eat some vegetables with minimal complaining. The weather was about to change as well and something warm might ease his aching leg.

None of this Ben would dare to speak aloud. It wasn't as if he was a girl. He did know about it since his mom (a total girl) used to say stuff like that about the elderly neighbors. His mom had forced him to learn how to cook and he had impressed more than one female with his ability to throw things into a pot and not burn it.

Ben finished tossing all the cut ingredients into the cooking pot and turned. And jumped. Dean stood there. For an old man with a bum leg, Dean still could get around quietly when he wanted to.

Dean nudged the sketchpad abandoned on the countertop. "Sammy?"

"Yeah."

"He never gives up." The older man grabbed himself a cup of coffee (Ben had just brewed a fresh pot), sat at the table and stretched out his bad leg. Ben ignored the friendly warning, picked out a monthly gun magazine and sat at the table with his father.

"You should show him," Dean said unexpectedly.

Ben looked up. "Huh?"

Dean rolled his eyes, not at all fooled. "Sammy. Your work. Make the two meet in the middle. He'll keep on spending money, shooting in the dark, trying to figure it out."

Ben offered a cheeky grin, inherited straight from this man. "You've got the money to spend."

Dean huffed and drank the rest of his coffee. He looked between the empty cup and the half-full pot and considered. Ben would have offered to get him some, but Dean hated any reference or help prompted by his injury. Dean sat there for a couple minutes before forcing himself up and refilling his cup.

"Want one?" Dean offered.

Ben glanced at the fridge. He couldn't drink the sludge black like Dean and Bobby, but he wasn't as bad as Sam with his frou-frou drinks.

With a soft clink, Dean set a mostly full mug in front of Ben, his own mug on the table and sat down again. "You get your own cream."

Ben did so, and stirred the soup while he was standing.

"Can I see what's new?" Dean asked.

Ben considered it, since he was already up… and he knew he was being conned. He gave Dean a look to tell him that he was on to him and Dean merely smirked in return and raised an eyebrow. What was Ben going to do about it?

It was Ben's turn to huff and concede. He placed the cream on the table and climbed the stairs to his room, glancing in on a sleeping Bobby as he passed. He snagged his sketchpad from its hiding place and walked back downstairs. Sam would be home soon and Ben liked the silent game they were playing too much to end it. He flipped the book to the appropriate page before handing it over.

Dean looked at it and immediately grinned. "Yeah, that's what I remember."

"Figures you'd focus in on that part of the case."

Ben jumped and turned. There ISam/I stood looking over their shoulders, his extra height giving him a decided advantage. Ben swore he never learned the art of quiet walking as they had. (Bobby swore he had, but Ben was pretty sure it was Bobby's hearing getting worse, not his footsteps getting softer.) While he was thankful that he hadn't needed to hunt more than a couple times a year and always with a partner (or three) who had been threatened by all of his family, sometimes he yearned for the excitement. He had tried going on a hunt with Sam once.

Never again.

If John Winchester was anything at all like Sam in hunt-mode, Ben could totally understand running off to Stanford. Hell, Ben would run to a different continent if any one ever seriously suggested a repeat. And Sam said that he was nothing like his father. Whatever.

Ben wished Dean was good enough for hunts, but Dean was out of game for good and everyone, even Dean, knew and admitted it. Ben wouldn't go off on his own and hunt, he didn't have the experience. Whenever he was out in the 'real world,' he stayed very far away from the supernatural. It was a deal that he and his mother had made before she had died and he never strayed from it. When Dean had found out about the deal, he had reinforced it with every cuss word in his vocabulary. (Who knew that Dean knew even that much Arabic?)

"So you're making a comic book of our cases?" Sam said as he pulled the sketchpad out of Dean's grasp.

Dean willingly gave it up and Ben realized that he had been conned six ways from Sunday. The whole conversation today had to get Ben to this point just as Sam was walking in the door.

"Graphic novel," he corrected.

Dean grinned, not caring that he had been caught out.

Sam sighed. "It's not enough that the Trickster had very scantily dressed women kicking Dean's ass, you had to make them impossibly over-endowed as well?"

"Of course," Dean and Ben chorused.

"Boys," Sam grumbled, but then he had to show his approval. He couldn't do anything less. "You know, it wouldn't be too hard to change the coding of the webpage and add this in the header and we could change it every week and have it be a comic strip for hunters to read. Hell, if you can get a following, then maybe we can get a hold of more hunters more often." The webpage and message board was Sam's contribution to the hunt these days. Dean didn't like Sam going solo any more than he liked Ben doing it, so Sam had created a really secure site and moderated it. He answered questions and gave advice and tried to hook hunters up with the nearest backup when needed.

Ben successfully grabbed for his work and escaped the kitchen with his dignity and with his sketchpad… and with the new sketchpad that Sam had bought him. (Sam had insisted.) Okay, so he might have left a little of that dignity in the kitchen, but what else was family for? He sighed in relief at the top of the stairs. He put the pads away and then checked his hiding place for his real 'art.' The graphic novel was just a distraction. He was never ever going tell anyone about this. Then he noticed that his journal had been moved and a new one had been placed underneath.

No note. Either Dean or Bobby had done it; Sam would have wanted to talk about it. Ben's money was on Dean. Since he had blabbed to Sam about the cartoons, Dean had given Sam enough truth that he would never go looking for the rest of it. Dean was conning Sam now and giving Ben an out.

Heavens knew that Sam would want to put his hunting Ipoetry/I on the website if he ever found out.

*


End file.
